


Things Tony Stark Is Thankful For (That Are Not Captain America's Ass)

by JenTheSweetie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 12:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: “It’s not just about food!” Clint said, pointing at him with a turkey baster.  “It’s about - it’s about the whole - everything!  Pilgrims!  Football!  We live withactual real live Captain America, and youdon’t want to do Thanksgiving?”





	Things Tony Stark Is Thankful For (That Are Not Captain America's Ass)

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place post-Avengers 2012 because, hey, it's the holiday season, we could all use something a little more merry and bright. This year I'm especially thankful for Snapjack, who gave me this prompt.

Tony wasn’t much of a cook.

Not that he’d ever really thought about it.  Ever since he could remember, there had always been other people to deal with food, or if for whatever reason there wasn’t, there was always the equally simple option of Not Dealing With Food.  Tony could make a mean smoothie, and Tony could boil water if it was needed for some kind of experiment, but beyond that Tony’s various kitchens were more or less decorative.  

Steve didn’t cook much either.  He _could_  cook - in the 30s and 40s food didn’t just appear magically after a quick phone call, apparently, so Steve could fry eggs and steam vegetables and cobble together spaghetti and meatballs, and everybody knew he made a mean roast beef sandwich and always ate like seven of them immediately after a mission.  

But the biggest barrier to Steve becoming a better cook was that he liked the microwave.  He liked the microwave _a lot_.  Steve liked pretty much anything that came out of the microwave, from popcorn to entire pot pies, not because it necessarily tasted good but because it was _so easy._ “It’s probably my favorite thing about the future,” he said one day, and if Tony felt slighted he _definitely_  didn’t show it.    

Bruce could get by in the kitchen, but everything he made was sad and screamed “bachelor” and “on the run” and Tony tried not to think about it too much.  One day Tony came home to find Bruce heating up some ground beef that he’d bought _on sale_ , and Tony had nearly wept and immediately ordered enough sushi to feed all of Midtown.

Thor _loved_  eating, but when he tried to assemble ingredients himself the results were usually horrifying.  Thor took flavors he enjoyed, flavors like frosting and ketchup and curry, and combined them such that the whole was significantly worse than the sum of its parts.  When Thor was cooking, Tony tried to ignore it unless JARVIS gave him a warning about toxic fumes.

Tony had never seen Natasha do anything in the kitchen more complicated than opening a Vitamin Water.

And then there was Clint.  Somewhere between joining the circus and becoming SHIELD’s best medieval weapon, Clint had learned to Cook with a capital C.  Clint had Opinions on grass-fed vs. corn-fed beef.  Clint knew the difference between broiling and baking, and openly disdained of anyone who didn’t.  Clint _maintained a spice rack_.  

And as it turned out, having a roommate who liked to cook had major benefits.  There was always something in the fridge to eat, and it was actually kind of nice when everybody sat down to dinner together.  Plus, Tony had once come home to find Clint making pasta by hand from, like, flour and water and time, which was fascinating, because Tony, who was Italian, genuinely hadn’t known that pasta came in “fresh”.  

All of which to say Tony shouldn’t have been surprised when Clint looked ready to sacrifice him at the altar of Top Chef Masters when he mentioned that he didn’t do Thanksgiving.

“I’m sorry,” Clint said, waving a turkey baster with horror, “what do you mean you don’t _do_  Thanksgiving?”

“Uh,” Tony said.  “I mean I don’t do Thanksgiving.  I didn’t even know I had a turkey baster, in fact.  Where’d you find that?  You might want to do a little extra sanitizing, just in case.”

“How can you not do Thanksgiving?” Clint said, still looking aghast, and not, as far as Tony could tell, about the baster.  “This is - we - _it’s Thanksgiving_.”

“I’m not really a stuffing person,” Tony said with a shrug.  “Gotta keep it tight, the suit doesn’t exactly have an elastic waistband.”

“It’s not just about food!” Clint said, pointing at him with the baster.  “It’s about - it’s about the whole - everything!  Pilgrims!  Football!  We live with _actual real live Captain America_ , and you _don’t want to do Thanksgiving_?”

“I didn’t say anything about the rest of you,” Tony said.  “You’re welcome to celebrate the traditional American values of overeating and imperialism however you want.”

“You’re insulting Steve,” Clint accused.  “He’s insulted.”

“I’m not insulted,” Steve said.  “I don’t really do Thanksgiving either.”

Clint placed a hand over his eyes like a swooning damsel.  “Please, god, tell me I’m in a nightmare.”

“I mean, sure, we did Thanksgiving, but not like the kind of Thanksgiving they do in Good Housekeeping,” Steve said.  “We’d get whatever meat was cheapest, and of course there were always plenty of potatoes, and after my mom died I tried to make a pie, once, and Bucky told me it was like eating a bucket of sand, so that was the end of that.  And then there was the war, so.”  He shrugged. 

Clint turned to the rest of the team.  “ _Someone_  here has to be excited about Thanksgiving.”

“I’m kind of out of the habit after, you know, being in hiding for the past couple of years,” Bruce said apologetically.

“As you know, my nationality is a bit of a tricky subject,” Natasha said.

“What’s Thanksgiving?” Thor asked.

“Fuck all of you,” Clint said.  “I’ve been up since 6 cooking this turkey and god help me, you assholes are going to eat it.”

“It’s not the holidays without a good feud,” Tony said cheerfully.  

-

In the tradition of Stark men, Tony spent Thanksgiving Day working, ignoring anyone who tried to bother him (in order: JARVIS, Pepper, JARVIS, a Hello Kitty balloon from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade that almost got loose, JARVIS, thirteen texts from Clint berating him for not having a gravy boat made of anything other than silver, and JARVIS), and drinking.  If there was one part of the holiday spirit Tony could get into, it was the drinking.  Mulled wine!  Spiked eggnog!  Shots of quadruple-distilled vodka illegally imported from the Soviet Union!  That one had maybe just been his dad, but still.  That made it a family tradition!  

“Sir,” JARVIS said.  “You - ”

“I swear to _god_ , J, something better be on fire or getting invaded, I am _busy_ , do I need to update your dictionary to include the word busy?”

“Captain Rogers is approaching the lab,” JARVIS said smugly, and Tony groaned, because, in fact, according to Tony’s Official Guide To Shit You’re Allowed To Interrupt Me For, Steve _did_  count as an invasion.

Here was the thing about Steve: he was a _lot_.  He was, at various intervals, an uptight asshole, absolutely hilarious, kind of staggeringly impressive, and dead fucking depressing.  And to make it all _that_  much worse Tony was pretty sure he had a crush on him.  

Which should be _illegal_ , for the record, because the man was 28 (too young) and 95 (too old, probably) and he was the last person in the world Tony should even consider getting into bed with because he was a teammate and had a case of PTSD to rival Tony’s and on top of all that he was probably the straightest thing since sliced bread and _shit_ , Tony was maybe a little drunk even by Stark Family Holiday standards because instead of getting ready for Steve to walk in the door Tony had just _stared at the little video of him walking in the door_.   

“Hi,” Steve said.

“Balloon,” Tony said, like you do.

“What?” Steve frowned fetchingly.  Oh, god.  Did he just think the word “fetching”?  Tony mentally upgraded his crush status from “probably” to “definitely, you embarrassing fuck.”  

“There was a balloon,” Tony said.  “Almost hit the building.  Crisis narrowly averted.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said.  “I saw it on TV.  Thought I might have to pull it down myself.”  

He grinned.  

Tony stared at him.  

Steve scratched the back of his neck.  “That was a joke.  I don’t think I could have pulled a whole balloon down by myself.”

“You probably could,” Tony said.  “You threw a Jeep Wrangler the other day.”

Steve shrugged modestly, as if throwing a two-ton car was no big thang.  “Still.  It’s pretty windy out there.  And the balloons are much bigger than they were before, so - anyway, I just came to see what you were up to.  Upstairs is, uh.  Crowded.”

“With more than just Clint on his crusade to save Thanksgiving?”

“Bruce is making a casserole,” Steve said.  “And Clint put Thor in charge of dessert.”

“He _didn’t_.”

“He did,” Steve said.  “That’s what the whole sugar and burnt hair smell is.”

“Sounds delicious.”  

“I think Nat went out to pick up a pie, so we should be okay.”

“Well, thanks for the update,” Tony said.  “Did you need something?”

“Not really,” Steve said.  “I just didn’t want to get roped into setting the table or something.”

“Steve Rogers, I’m appalled,” Tony said.  “You’re _hiding_  instead of _helping_  someone?”

“Hey, at least I didn’t set Thor’s hair on fire so I could go to the store.”

“Natasha set Thor’s hair on fire?” Tony said, impressed.

“I mean, I don’t have any _proof_ , but the timing’s a little convenient, don’t you think?” 

“If anyone could do it, it’s her.  Well, feel free to join the party down here.  Not that it’s much of a party, unless you want a drink?  Of course you don’t, I only offered to be polite, which is kind of out of character for me, admittedly, and I’m going back to work now, so you can turn the game on or whatever, all right, good talk, break!” Tony finished, _finally_ , Jesus Christ.

“Cool,” Steve said, and flopped down on the sofa.  

Tony turned back to his tools and picked something up at random.  Ah, a blowtorch. Perfect, he could light himself on fire.  When had he become a 12 year old girl who couldn’t stop talking in front of the boy she liked, and also, when had he decided he officially liked Steve?  

This was a problem.  

This was a _big_  problem.  

This was a problem that could be solved with alcohol.

-

It should surprise absolutely no one that this was _not_  a problem that could be solved with alcohol.

It didn’t surprise Tony, because he was old as fuck and knew better, but he was already drunk enough to forget that lesson and anyway it was worth a shot.  A big shot, first of the scotch he kept behind the spare soldering irons, and then, once Clint’s yelling over the comm systems became so loud they couldn’t avoid it, with a bottle of wine that Clint opened because it was “a good year” and it “went great with yams”.  Which, _what_ , since when had Clint become a fucking - a fucking - what was the word - a _sommelier_ , since when had Clint become a sommelier and since when did _any_  wine go well with _yams_?

“It does go with the yams, actually,” Tony said, not that anyone had asked because they were all too busy stuffing their faces. 

Because the food was… good.  No, dammit.  It was better than good.  It was _transcendent_.  The turkey was moist, the potatoes perfectly mashed, the stuffing bready and crunchy all at once.  The yams were like eating candy and vegetables at the same time, but in a good way.  Tony was, almost, for once in his life, actually enjoying Thanksgiving.

Until.

“So,” Clint said, “let’s go around the table and say what we’re thankful for this year.”

Everyone groaned.  

“This is why I tried to leave you in Budapest,” Natasha said.

“For those of you who don’t know,” Clint said, ignoring her and turning to Thor, “there is a tradition here in America to share what we’re thankful for on Thanksgiving, because this is supposed to be a day about being grateful for everything we have or some shit.  I’ll start, okay?  I’m thankful for Stella.  Stella’s my favorite bow, if anyone doesn’t know that.”

“We’re familiar,” Bruce said. 

“I’m also thankful for the fact that the Packers are decent this year and, relatedly, for Tony’s 90 inch TV.  I’m thankful that I only broke one of my toes two weeks ago when that robot turtle thing showed up in the Village, seriously, fuck that thing, how was it so slow but also so graceful?  Oh, I’m thankful for another year that Nick Fury pays me to shoot people.  And I’m thankful for having a bunch of assholes to cook Thanksgiving dinner for.”

“Gross,” Tony said.  

“Who’s next?” Clint said.  “Natasha, do I hear you volunteering?”  


“No,” Natasha said.  

“I know you’re thankful for _something_.”

“I’m thankful I only have to think of something I’m thankful for once a year,” Natasha said, and sat back proudly.

“That’s like wishing for more wishes,” Clint complained.  “Banner?”

“Oh,” Bruce said.  “Uh.  I’m thankful I’m no longer technically an internationally wanted criminal.  I’m thankful Tony invented clothes that stretch and shrink with the other guy.  Oh, and I’m glad they decided not to put the Hulk balloon in the parade after all.”

“Yeah, man, bullet dodged on that one,” Clint said.  “Thor?  Want to give it a shot?”

“Yes!” Thor boomed.  “I’m thankful for Jane, who changed my life so thoroughly with her warm welcome to Midgard.  I’m thankful for my family, who have shown me much patience as I find my way.  And I’m thankful for having a team of such strong warriors to fight alongside.”  He looked around, beaming.  “Oh, and Cheetos!”

“Sounds about right,” Clint said.  “Steve?”

Steve set his fork down.  “Well, I guess I’d have to say I’m most thankful that New York is still here.”

“Well that got dark,” Clint said.  “All right, Tony, you can’t wiggle out of this one.  Put the yams down and spill.”

“First of all, I’m thankful for these yams, obviously,” Tony said, helping himself to the last of the yams.  “Okay, what else?  Uh, I was all prepared to be kind of a dick about Thanksgiving, because as you know I don’t really do Thanksgiving.  And when I said I didn’t do Thanksgiving, I meant that I don’t do Thanksgiving on purpose, because I don’t like Thanksgiving.”

“No, really?” Clint said, rolling his eyes.  

“Because the people I’ve done Thanksgiving with don’t always, you know, stick around, and so I’d rather just skip it sometimes, right?  But, uh - I don’t know, you guys showed up and we saved the world and then you moved in and you’re still here, so I guess that’s something.  So I guess I’d have to say I’m thankful for that.”  

Tony took a large gulp of wine and then continued, because hey, why the hell not, “And I don’t say this kind of stuff very often so don’t get used to it, okay?  Thor, I’m thankful that you’re here because, man, you’re a really good time even if your taste in food is garbage.  Natasha, I liked you when you were my PA and the crazy thing is I actually like you _more_  now, even though you don’t have to pretend to like _me_  anymore, so that’s something.  Bruce, Brucie, I’m such a fan, I will invent a thousand fabrics for your beautiful green ass if you want me to, all you have to do is ask and you shall receive.  Clint, even though you’re an annoying son of a bitch sometimes, you cook a mean Thanksgiving dinner and I’m glad you did it, I actually am.  And Steve.  Oh, Steve.  What to say.  I should probably just say nothing, because if I’m not careful I’m going to start talking about how much I like Steve and _that_  would be a real - ”

Tony froze, or at least he thought he did, he _really_  wanted to freeze, he wanted to freeze and then run down to his lab and invent a time machine and go back in time five minutes and stop himself from talking _,_ but instead he was, oh god, he was _still talking_  - 

“ - a real problem,” he finished, to complete silence.

He looked around the table.  Bruce looked like he wanted to crawl under the table on Tony’s behalf.  Thor looked perplexed.  Natasha was clearly trying not to laugh.  Clint’s mouth was hanging open, revealing a disgusting mix of cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and, sidenote, ew, Clint, why _?_

And Steve was… perfectly blank.  A statue.  A marble Adonis at the dining room table.  

“Well,” Tony said.  “Anybody else thankful for anything?  No?  Great.  I’m gonna go throw up now.”

And then, taking his glass of wine with him because Tony Stark was _not_  a quitter, Tony took off.

-

He wasn’t actually going to puke, he determined fairly quickly, but it had been a decent way to excuse himself because nobody liked to hang out with somebody who was about to throw up, not even - 

\- well, Tony had been about to say “not even Steve”, but apparently he was wrong because he’d barely even hit the hallway when Steve caught up to him.  

“You’re not going to be sick,” Steve said.  

“It’s so like you to think you know whether or not I’m going to be sick,” Tony said.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You think you’re right about _everything_ ,” Tony said.  

Steve frowned.  Tony carefully avoided the word _fetching_  or any of its brethren, _captivating_ , _winsome,_  and _fine as fuck._ “No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.  See, just there!  You did it again!” Tony said, taking a sullen sip of wine.  

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”  
  
“Are you judging me right now?”

“You literally _just said_  you’re about to throw up,” Steve said, sounding exasperated.  

“I know, and wasn’t that a pretty clear sign that I didn’t want to talk to anyone?” 

“I just wanted to,” Steve said, and stopped.

Tony, whose mouth and brain had apparently shaken hands and went their separate ways a while ago, said, “You know when I said the thing about liking you, I think it’s possible people took that the wrong way.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

“Because what I _meant_  was, I don’t hate you anymore,” Tony said.  “Which is a pretty big step, actually, because I did hate you, before.  When I met you.  You were pretty hateable.”

“I’ve heard,” Steve said.  

“And now I like you a normal amount.  In a normal way.  So, congrats on that.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” Tony said.  

Steve sighed.  He seemed… annoyed.  Upset?  Constipated?  Tony was still learning to read him.  He was like a big beautiful blonde book written in another language.  “You know, Tony, I didn’t come down to your lab today because I didn’t want to help with Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You didn’t?” Tony said.  He felt like he was missing something.  Oh, right.  His drink.  Steve had taken it away from him, the bastard.  He wondered if he could steal it back.  Steve’s reflexes were good, sure, but Tony was almost certainly more determined - 

“No,” Steve said.  “I didn’t.”  He sighed again.  “I came down to your lab because I like you a normal amount too.”

Tony, to his own surprise, completely forgot about his wine.  “What?”

“In a normal way,” Steve said, raising his eyebrows.

“I feel like you’re not saying quite what you mean,” Tony said.  

“Yeah, because I’m trying to skirt the issue in case I’m reading this completely wrong,” Steve said.  “Give me a break, will you?” 

“Oh my god, you like me,” Tony said, figuring it out because he was a _genius_.

Steve winced.  “Maybe.  I think.  I’m pretty sure, actually.  And for the record I’m only telling you because I think you already said it on accident.  And also because I have a feeling you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

“That’s a reasonable expectation,” Tony said.  “So if we both like each other a normal amount, that’s… interesting.”

“You’re gonna make this really difficult, aren’t you,” Steve said.  

“Absolutely,” Tony said. 

“Figures,” Steve said, and that’s when he leaned forward and Tony leaned forward too and they met in the middle in one of the sloppiest and most awesome first kisses Tony had ever had, and for the record he’d had a _lot_.

“I guess I’m honored?” Steve said, pulling back, and shit, did Tony say that out loud?

“Yeah, you did,” Steve said.  “And just a head’s up, telling someone about how many other first kisses you’ve had literally _during_  a first kiss isn’t considered good form.  Hey, are you okay?”

“I think I’m actually about to throw up now,” Tony said, and bolted.

-

When Tony woke up the next morning he remembered exactly three things about Thanksgiving: Clint’s absurdly perfect yams, the look on Steve’s face just before he kissed him, and the taste of Clint’s absurdly perfect yams as they came back up.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Indeed,” JARVIS said sympathetically.

After much moaning and gnashing of teeth and Google searches for “hangover cause of death possible?” and “wine good with yams poison”, Tony dragged himself down to the kitchen.  Someone had cleaned it pretty thoroughly - Tony had to assume Steve, because at heart he really was a nice guy, the bastard - and luckily even the scent of burnt hair was mostly gone.  Tony dry heaved in the direction of the sink while his coffee brewed, which was classy, and halfway through his second cup of caffeine, just as he began to feel slightly more like a human being than something a Chitauri coughed up, the worst happened.

If by “the worst”, you mean “Steve ‘Somehow I Don’t Look Bloated The Day After Thanksgiving’ Rogers walked in.”

“Ugh,” Tony said.  

“Wow, okay,” Steve said.

“No, sorry, that wasn’t about you,” Tony said.  “I mean, it was, but not in the way you - anyway.  Hi.  Good morning.  I’m alive.”

“I see that,” Steve said.  He busied himself in the fridge, which Tony was almost sure he was doing just to avoid looking at him, which honestly was fair.  Tony was gonna let him do that, and then, like an adult, he was going to gently, carefully edge around the topic of Them, and then hopefully it would all be resolved immediately and no one would ever have to speak about it again and Tony could crawl back into bed until Christmas.

“So we kissed last night,” Tony blurted out.

Steve shut the fridge door firmly.  “Okay, so that’s how we’re gonna do this.”

“Sorry,” Tony said.  “My brain’s still kind of soggy.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember,” Steve said, and he sounded… cautious.  Nervous, maybe.  Tony didn’t like him nervous, he decided, especially not when it was _clearly_  Tony’s fault.  Tony liked him calm.  Tony liked him… happy.  

Ugh, that was gross.  Let’s see, how about… naked.  Tony liked him _naked_.  Yeah, that was more like it.

“I do remember,” Tony said, trying valiantly to ignore the idea of Steve naked because as nice as that was it definitely wasn’t helpful right now.  “Kind of.  Most of it, I think.  The important parts.”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve said.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk.”

“I agree.”

They stared at each other.  Tony could (vaguely) remember Steve being brave last night, so.  He figured he kind of owed him one.

“So here’s the thing,” Tony said.  “I kind of want to kiss you again.  Not right now, because my mouth tastes like something out of Thor’s cookbook of nightmares, I’m pretty sure my teeth have _fur_ , but - if you want to, I want to.”

“Oh,” Steve said.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve been clear about that,” Tony said.  “Publicly, even.”

Steve kindly smothered a smirk.  “Very publicly.”

“Okay, fuck off, it’s not like I tweeted it.”

“You said it at Thanksgiving dinner, Tony.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t on TV or anything.  Were we?  We weren’t, right?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Steve said.

“So I’m gonna go try to make my mouth acceptable for human habitation, and maybe we can hang out later?”

“Sure,” Steve said, and this time when he smiled he didn’t hide it.  “Sounds like a _normal_  thing to do.”

“Thanks for that,” Tony called after him as Steve waved over his shoulder and left and god, that _ass_ , he was going to get to _touch_  it, thank god you couldn’t die of a hangover because if he’d died before getting that ass in his hands he would have been _pissed_.

“Good morning!” Clint said, bursting out from around the corner and thoroughly ruining what was becoming a very nice and suddenly very _possible_  fantasy.

“Jesus,” Tony said.  “Were you hiding there listening?”

“Yup,” Clint said.  “You two figure your sexual tension stuff out?”

“I’m sorry, shouldn’t you know?  You _just_  admitted to eavesdropping.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear you _say_  it.”

“If you weren’t so good at cooking I’d throw you out,” Tony said, turning back to his coffee.

“So I guess this means you _do Thanksgiving_  now, huh?” Clint said with a snicker.

“Did you just somehow turn _Thanksgiving_  into a double entendre?” Tony said.

“I’m very talented,” Clint said.

  


End file.
